


The Wanderings

by pocchong



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pre-Star Wars: A New Hope, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocchong/pseuds/pocchong
Summary: "We are running out of time."





	The Wanderings

There had been rumors among the locals, about mysterious creatures living in the long-abandoned space, creatures that wield uncanny power. “Beware of their presence,” his master had told him, “They are claimed to be merciless murders, responsible for the death of several unfortunate travelers who lost their way in that saline prairie.”

“But I thought those are just old folk tales.” He replied, but nodded anyway.

It was hard to tell the day cycles from the night on that planet, with thick atmosphere absorbing most visible spectrum of sunlight. The native guide had left them when they reached the border of the salty plane, insisting that it would be unwise to proceed. They found the discarded mine cave on the third day.

They encountered the beast, with dark skin, fierce golden eyes and dragon-like claws. The attack happened in the blink of an eye, he barely had time to react. It fought viciously, moving deftly in the shadow. He stumbled, his back was torn open, but eventually he managed to strike the final blow before his saber was knocked out of his hand.

The oxygen concentration was lower underground, and he had lost his breathing device at some point during the fight. He fell to the ground, vision blurred, numb and cold from blood loss, the corpse of the unknown creature was lying beside him, decapitated. Then firm hands were on his shoulder, urgent words trying to grab his attention, “You had fought well,” he was told, “We need to tend to your wounds as soon as possible, I hope those fangs are not poisonous.”

In his darkened slumber, he saw smoke and crimson flame, and whispers filled with regret. _We’re running out of time_ , it said. _You’ll have to do the rest on your own._

He had been seeing things on their way back. Creeping shadows, watching over them with hollow eyes, calcified skeletons of dead animals floating around the vast salt lake. Thin layer of unknown substance crystallized on the hem of his master’s cloak, crawling like venomous vine. The wound on his arm turned to bluish purple, sharp scales grew out of unhealed flesh. He tried to peel them off but the pain was unbearable, so he watched them spread and covered his forearm.

His master remembered none of those.

 

He woke to the harsh scream of wind scratching the barren land, gasping.

 

It is not common for him to dream these days, since he could hardly fall asleep. He would rather meditate, or exhaust himself to unconsciousness and wake up on his floor days later, dehydrated and starving. He began to depart from his hut before dawn, trekking deep into the desert, seeking isolation, desperate to be away from—well, from everything.

The Lars family, despite their obvious hostility, had warned him about tribes of sand people and Krayt dragon roaming in this area. But he was too bothered to care when he tried to sink into meditation under the scorching sun.

He failed anyway. He had knelt still for hours, struggled to clear his mind, yet not able to reach any extent of tranquility. Darkness was talking to him, piercing the deadly silence around him like a distant wail, invading his vision and seeping into his skin. Lurking whispers echoed in his head for days, slowly eating away whatever amount of sanity remaining in him.

 _Is it worth it?_ They said. _The failures of your past, the pain you have endured and the sufferings yet to come. Is it really what your life is meant for?_

That was when his former master, or at least some strange incarnation of him, appeared to him for the first time on this planet, and said, “You are troubled.”

“How very observant of you.” He replied bluntly.

It was almost intriguing to see a hint of smile to appear on that achingly familiar face. “I’m not sure if I should be worried, or relieved, about the fact that you are still holding onto that sarcasm of yours.”

 _Probably neither_ , he thought.

His master (former master) continued to set up an irregular pattern of materializing out of nowhere since that first time. Sometimes they would talk, or even argue, during his better days. But most of the times it was just Qui-Gon pulling him out from coma and he didn’t even remember how he had passed out again.

“Yoda had hinted that I may need to seek guidance from you.” He said once, and stared into pale stars scattered across the sky.

“I doubt if my guidance could still do more good than harm,” the blue figure flickered, and for one moment he thought it would just fade away, “I was ignorant during crucial moments, we all have been. And our decisions had led to dreadful consequences.”

He winced at the implication and sat up. “I don’t need you to constantly appear and remind me of the catastrophe caused by my own failure, of why I need to survive and mend them.”

“I understand your anger towards me.” His master said, matter-of-factly.

“I’m not angry, just frustrated.” He shrugged. It was not entirely untrue. He could not—should not—blame anyone for the years that had led him to this place. The debt was solely his to pay.

“I have suggestions for you, if you would like to listen.” The apparition continued. He went silent for a while, not entirely sure of what to expect.

“Stop being suicidal, find your way home and get some rest.”

“With all due respect, I really shouldn’t be expecting anything practical from someone dead for decades.” He said flatly, more to himself. He was ready to be met with disappointment, or rage, even. But all he had saw was pain.

 “It was never my intention to leave you behind.” The blue figure paused briefly, and disappeared.

He vanished for months, if not years. Obi-Wan was not counting days, he simply did not expect to ever see him again.

 

And now he tried to look around, tried to figure out where he was, but his sight was blocked by the glowing blue figure hovering over him.

“Well, hello again.” He rasped out.

“I really don’t appreciate this trait you have developed.” the apparition said. “A sandstorm is approaching.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, earning himself a disapproving frown. At least the frustration seemed to be mutual.

“I thought you had left.” He said.

Qui-Gon moved to his side, their shoulders touching. He blinked. The sensation had always been bizarre, not exactly tangible, but he could feel something mild and fluid like water soaking his skin. Certainly far from unpleasant. When his eyes were finally accustomed to the dim light, he found himself curled up in the corner of a small cave, his back hurts against the sharp rocky edges.

“I did, probably for too long,” his master admitted, “I didn’t know what would help you.”

He was not expecting this, not from someone who’s practically part of the Force now. Helplessness washed over him, left him overwhelmed. He almost wanted to reach out and touch those furrowed brows. He clenched his hands instead.

“I am—” he stuttered, “You don’t need to, help me, that is. Maybe you are not supposed to interfere at all.”

But he closed his eyes when Qui-Gon leaned in.

It shouldn’t be happening, it’s definitely not real, but he felt something soft and warm pressed against his forehead, and he reluctantly allowed himself to be soothed by the tender contact.

“I do love you, you know.” The words were hushed, barely audible.

“…Not a child,” he murmured, and suppressed a shiver, “Not your student anymore, haven’t been for a long time.”

“No, I’m well aware of that, and that was not meant for a child.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, too exhausted to ruminate what he heard. He was dying, but he could suddenly imagine finding home again, in dark blue eyes, low rumbling voice and lingering bitterness of tea.

Yet he felt like drowning.

“Did Yoda send you here,” he finally asked, “To offer some comfort, and order me not to die?”

“Not Yoda, I refused to become his messenger, the troll will have to contact you on his own.” Qui-Gon leaned back, his eyes gazing upward, and for a second he seemed to be lost in something elusive. “You have been burdened with consequences of choices that were not yours for so long now. I wouldn’t force you into anything, not again.”

“What other options do I have?” He asked out of pure curiosity. He looked away as Qui-Gon’s expression softened, inexplicably afraid of whatever answer he might hear.

His former mentor stared at him for a long moment before speaking again. “Leave this place, find somewhere more habitable.” he sighed, voice tinged with sorrow, “Or come with me.”

And Force, he didn’t need elaboration of the meaning of that. He allowed himself to be submerged by the thought for a while. It was tempting, indeed, passing into eternity, leaving all the sufferings behind, running away for the first and the last time.

But he can’t.

“I still have duty here, on this planet, among the livings.”

He huffed out an exhausted breath, made his attempt to stand, only to be hindered by gentle pressure on his wrist. He glared.

“I thought I was granted the freedom to choose.” He said.

“You are, like you’ve always been,” the ghost told him, “But there is a sandstorm approaching. Rest for now. We’ll figure out the rest when you get back.”

 

_“How do you feel?”_

_“Hurts.”_

 

He went to the town for supply on an extremely hot day. He covered his face and walked along the shadow. The bazaar was crowded as ever, air smelled of grease and rust. He hurried past two bargaining merchants, kept his head low, and—

Someone tugged on his sleeve.

He froze, tilted his head, then looked down into strikingly blue eyes.

“You are him, aren’t you?” Crisp, tiny voice, “The old Wizard living among sand dunes.”

And he was smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> (sort of) Inspired by lines from _The End of Evangelion_.  
>  I'm still learning to write properly in English, apologies for all the mistakes.


End file.
